


what we are looking for

by LoveIsNotAVictoryMarch



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Ghosts, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, M/M, Magic, Masturbation, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Play Fighting, Serious Injuries, Slow Burn, Unreliable Narrator, Voyeurism, minor jaskier/original female character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:53:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22292872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveIsNotAVictoryMarch/pseuds/LoveIsNotAVictoryMarch
Summary: It all starts with Jaskier asking him for a favor, again.Or: How to find out you're in love with your best friend in five easy steps.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 97
Kudos: 1108





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is unbeta'd, full of tropes, competely self-indulgent and plays fast and loose with canon.

Geralt can’t believe he agreed to this.

Again.

He sighs and sinks deeper into the shadow of a massive stone pillar. The ballroom is lit by a thousand candles. Couples are twirling along the dancefloor. Jaskier just offered a dance to a clearly delighted noblewoman. Her laugh pearls over the music.

If he ignores the fact that he hates social events like this with a vengeance, the evening’s gone well so far, without any major disturbances. Geralt broke up a fight between two young knights, carried a inebriated older lady to one of the rooms for her to sleep off the wine and observed Jaskier making his rounds between the many unmarried (and married) women attending.

The dance ends, and Jaskier’s partner pulls him into a nook on the far side of the room, her intent clear in the determined smile on her red lips. Geralt promised to keep an eye on Jaskier, for reasons he can’t quite remember, so he pushes himself off the wall and follows the couple. He’d prefer slashing a bog monster.

He finds the pair in a tight embrace and picks a spot in the semi-darkness of the hallway. He can see all entry-points from here but will be nearly invisible for anyone who glances in his direction. Settling his back against the wall, he tries to get comfortable for the next half hour or so (he’s only heard of Jaskier’s amorous adventures so far and not a clue how long this might take) while Jaskier entertains the lady and himself.

Geralt will undoubtly have a clearer grasp on Jaskier’s “prowess” before the evening is over. The noblewoman is groping Jaskier’s ass and tugs him into an openmouthed kiss, to which Jaskier complies gracefully. Between kisses, words are whispered and Jaskier breathes “at your service, Mylady”, before he sinks to his knees and gently lifts the woman’s skirts. Geralt gets a peek at her legs, milk-white against the darker fabric of her dress. Distant candlelight flickers over her face when Jaskier sets to work. She’s biting her lip, eyes closed, leans heavier against the wall. Fingers card through Jaskier’s hair.

Whatever the bard is doing with his tongue, it must be effective. Her breath comes faster and a light blush covers her cheeks. Geralt has never had much opportunity to watch people having sex, nor did he want to, per se. But he can’t deny the appeal now. Against his intent, his blood is rushing down towards his groin, warming him all over. Geralt can’t quite tear his eyes away. Jaskier is using his fingers now, too, and his partner fights to keep her moans and small cries as quiet as possible. Geralt wonders what Jaskier’s doing, and with the contemplation rise unbidden images of the bard on his knees in front of _him._ He shakes his head to clear it, but the picture in his mind is persistent.

He’s filling in his breeches.

This is so very undignified.

The woman, thank the heavens, comes with a muffled cry. Geralt lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and rearranges himself in his pants with a low grunt of disapproval directed at his traitorous cock. Jaskier stands in a flourish and with a small bow to the lady, which is strangely adorable, and Geralt’s sure they’ll be going back to the hall now. The lady whispers something in Jaskier’s ear, and he shakes his head, “no need, Mylady,” but she seems intent on making her point. _No need_ , Geralt’s sense of self-preservation agrees fervently. He’s seen enough. But the lady insists. Jaskier, god bless his will to please, will not deny her.

And then it’s Jaskier who’s pushed against the wall and the noblewoman’s sinking to her knees in a cloud of skirts and fumbles for the button on Jaskier’s wide trousers. Which show an obvious bulge. That shouldn’t be of any kind of interest to Geralt. It definitely shouldn’t make his mouth water.

He swallows.

Jaskier is still trying to dissuade her. It’s clear he’s afraid of being caught at any moment. His gaze is flicking left to right and back again – _goddammit_.

Their eyes meet. Jaskier’s open wide with shock. Geralt cocks an eyebrow at him, projecting an completely unfazed, cool façade as hard as he can. A silent discussion takes place. Jaskier didn’t think Geralt would let him out of his sight, did he? Jaskier is beseeching him to leave him alone, Geralt makes it clear with a pointed stare that this might be the actual situation in which Jaskier might need his service, should the father or, gods forbid, the husband of his partner coincidentally pass by.

Jaskier stares a little longer, because he has to have the last word even in a silent conversation, but he’s distracted shortly after. The woman wins her fight with the button, and Jaskier’s cocks springs free with a little less enthusiasm than he might have two minutes ago. Geralt peels his eyes off the infuriatingly enticing tableau and looks down the hallway instead to give them what privacy he can. Alas, his resolve doesn’t last long. A soft moan reaches his ear, and his eyes snap back to Jaskier.

Who is still watching Geralt.

Jaskier’s gaze is focused on Geralt’s face – can he see the flush on his cheeks? Geralt feels hot all over and tugs on his armor to let the air cool his skin. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. Jaskier is still watching, gaze sliding down Geralt’s body, almost like a caress, while Jaskier’s hips are thrusting slowly between his partner’s lips.

Geralt stops himself from looking down to the spot where Jaskier’s gaze is resting now, hoping against all hope that the low light and the dark leather will hide his arousal. He shifts his weight and ignores the way his breeches slide over his oversensitive skin. He hadn’t anticipated this kind of ordeal, but more importantly he would never have imagined what it does to him, how much a small (huh, or maybe a certain not so small) part of him enjoys it.

Footsteps approach, the most wonderful sound Geralt has ever heard, and he sends a prayer of gratitude to whoever may be listening.

A bald, fat man appears next to him and Geralt steps in his way to block his view. Frantic movement behind him indicates that Jaskier and his lover heard the footsteps, too, and are hastily arranging their clothing.

“What the hell-“, the man starts and Geralt knows from the enraged look that he must have seen the couple.

“Father,” the woman appears next to Geralt, hands up in a placating gesture and a bright smile on her face. Geralt assumes she’s gotten out of a lot of predicaments this way. The man, her father, still seems too shocked to move into action, but it won’t hold much longer.

Geralt looks over at her and whispers, “Will you be alright?” She nods with a quick grin, so Geralt turns and grabs Jaskier’s arm.

“Time to go,” he grumbles, and pulls his friend out of the hall. His earlier run-ins with the knights have left him with a plan of the best escape routes. But even with his knowledge of the place, it doesn’t take long until they hear heavy footsteps behind them. The woman’s father might forgive _her_ , but he won’t let Jaskier get away with it. At least Geralt won’t bet on it.

Geralt ducks into a small hallway that leads to a staircase down to the cellars. Jaskier follows him, stumbling now and then while tries to refasten his trousers. They make it onto the street undetected and run for their horses. Geralt had suggested they leave Roach and Jaskier’s mare in a stable a ways from the castle to prepare for this exact outcome. Once again, his caution pays off. After half a mile, they reach the stable. They mount the horses and leave in a low trot to not attract suspicion.

“Well, what an exciting evening!” Jaskier says as soon as they cross the bridge out of town.

Geralt limits his answer to a grunt.

“Thank you for saving me,” Jaskier goes on, unreasonably cheery even for a blithe spirit like him. Geralt squints at him. Jaskier’s squirming a little in his saddle, obviously assuming Geralt won’t notice. Geralt can relate. It’s not a state in which riding is very comfortable. But it will pass. At least Geralt hopes so, and tries to wipe the memory of Jaskier’s face, slack with pleasure, from his mind.

They ride in silence until dawn rises, and make camp when they reach a small lake. Geralt lies down next to the hastily built fire, his back to Jaskier. He hopes he’ll dream of monsters and not about the way Jaskier’s plush mouth forms a little “o” when he’s getting his cock sucked.

Not for the first time, fate denies his wishes.


	2. the lake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank y'all for subscribing and for leaving kudos and comments! I'll try to update once a week.

The sun stands high over the small copse when Geralt awakes with a start. Hand already on the hilt of his sword, he’s jumping into a low crouch to face whatever woke him.

Jaskier stops mid-motion, his right hand deep in Geralt’s saddlebag. He lifts the other in a soothing gesture. “I was searching for something to eat. Adventures always leave me starved.”

“Mhh,” Geralt answers and lowers his sword. He could eat, too. Jaskier keeps rummaging. A few pieces of stale bread and a chunk of cheese that’s seen better days appear from the depths of his saddle bags. It’s more than he has a lot of days, it’ll be enough.

They munch in silence. Geralt keeps looking over at Jaskier, trying to figure out what exactly happened yesterday. Jaskier has made no secret of his admiration for Geralt, clearly born out of a romantic sense of adventure and reading too many tales about brave knights in his youth. By now he should have realized that these legends all nothing more than horsecrap. Geralt’s life isn’t glamorous. Still, Jaskier stays by his side, does everything he can to shift Geralt’s image into something less fearsome. His life is easier now that he’s not constantly chased out of villages, Geralt can admit that. They have become, as unlikely as that seems, friends.

Geralt’s not used to having friends. So he doesn’t know how convention stands on the topic of watching your friends have sex and being turned on by it. He assumes it’s not a typical part of these kinds of relationships. So he enjoyed it, nothing wrong with that. But what about Jaskier? He would have had every right to be outraged, or just semi-displeased about the fact that Geralt watched him. But that hadn’t seemed to be the case. His look had been – surprised, but pleasantly so. Geralt rubs his forehead. He can’t figure out an explanation for what happened yesterday that doesn’t involve the conclusion that Jaskier had liked the whole thing. Or maybe that’s just Geralt’s imagination running wild.

Jaskier’s deep in thought, too. The concentrated look on his face usually indicates that Geralt will have to listen to another song before night falls.

“I’m going for a swim,” Jaskier declares when he finishes his meager meal and brushes the breadcrumbs from his jacket.

“You’re what?”

“It’s a lovely day,” Jaskier goes on, even though it’s decidedly not, with clouds hanging low in the sky and the telltale syrupy light that precedes every serious storm.

Geralt has not time to argue. Jaskier dashes off in the direction of the small lake. Through the trees, Geralt catches glimpses of skin as Jaskier undresses. He pointedly looks in the other direction where Roach is gnawing on a few brownish leaves of grass.

“You could come, too” Jaskier shouts from the distance. Geralt doesn’t answer. He knows better than to go for a swim in a lake in the middle of nowhere. It’d be just his luck that it would be swarming with angry creatures harboring some kind of grudge for witchers. Hell, he even checks his bath water before he steps in. You never know.

There’s a splash and a short shout – the water must be cold – and then the sounds of Jaskier breaking through the water.

Geralt shouldn’t be worried for the bard, he’s a good swimmer and what are the chances that he’ll encounter any kind of danger – _Mmmh_.

He stands and walks over to the lake. Just in case. Jaskier is just dipping below the water line and reappears in a cloud of drops. Geralt crosses his arms in front of his chest to make his disgruntlement clear, but Jaskier just grins at him.

“It’s delightful,” he shouts, “once you get acc-cu-customed to the c-cold.”

Geralt grins. So it _is_ cold. He bets Jaskier is already regretting his decision, but too proud to admit it. He opens his mouth to tell him to come back, that they have to get going, when something apparently tugs on Jaskier’s leg and he vanishes for a moment. He comes back up, spitting out water, before he’s tugged down again. When he comes up the next time, his eyes are wide with shock and he gets out a garbled “Ger-“ before whatever has gotten to him dives again.

Geralt is at the shore in a blink, peeling off his armor as quick as he can, grabbing his sword and hauling himself into the lake. _If he’s is playing a prank on me, I will kill him with my bare hands,_ he thinks furiously, as he forces his cold muscles through the even colder water. He’s focused on the spot where he saw Jaskier last.

_I’ll smash his lute._

_I’ll offer him to the next monster I find._

_I’ll leave him here and take his horse._

_Please let this be a prank._

He reaches the spot where Jaskier was last seen and dives. The water is a murky brown. He can’t see his own hands. Blindly he pushes downward, reaches around. The lake is deeper than he thought. The cold is squeezing his lungs, stealing his breath.

Something moves below him. A dark body, gliding through the deep. Then, something brighter, pale skin? Geralt fights against the urge to breathe, his lungs on fire from the lack of air. He reaches out and his fingers almost get a grip, but the pale arm? Leg? Is pulled from his grasp.

He doesn’t have much time. Black spots are dancing in the corners of his vision. He follows the pale glow and finally, finally can close his palm around a limb. He doesn’t wait to find out which part of Jaskier he grabbed, just tugs and gathers the lasts bits of his strength to pull the both upwards.

Up.

Up.

Until he’s breaching the waterline and can suck in the first lungful of air in what seemed like hours. He looks down to find he’s holding Jaskier’s right arm so he pulls his head out of the water and hold him to his chest and starts to swim back to the shore on his back, using only one arm. It takes way longer than the way here. Whatever grabbed Jaskier seems to have given up. Geralt can feel a smooth limb sliding along his legs once, but for whatever reason he’s being left alone.

He carries Jaskier up the shore and lets his unconscious body slide to the ground before he sinks to his knees next to him, a hand on Jaskier’s chest. He’s not breathing.

Geralt has last seen this as a boy when a kid from the next village had nearly drowned in a stream. He hopes he remembers it right. He straddles Jaskier’s – naked, but that’s irrelevant right now – hips and leans down to grab his jaw, his thumb pushing his lips apart with brusque efficiency, before he takes a deep breath and seals his lips over Jaskier’s, blows the air into his lungs, all the while fervently willing him to breathe. He does it again and again, until he’s lightheaded himself, but still he keeps going.

He can’t lose Jaskier now, he thinks, even though he knows how fragile the life of a human is and that it’s only been a matter of time until Jaskier will be taken from him one way or another.

 _But not now, I’m not ready, we still have time,_ a voice inside him screams.

Suddenly, Jaskier’s lungs expand and his body convulses. He coughs out a shockingly large amount of water, heaving and spitting while Geralt sits up and watches like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Jaskier opens his eyes. The white around his irises is tinged red from the lack of air. Their gazes meet. Jaskier seems to need a moment to gather his wits.

“You saved me,” he croaks and spits out more water.

Geralt strokes a wet and curling lock from Jaskier’s forehead, just because he needs to do something, now that the frenzy of saving Jaskier’s life passed.

“Again,” Geralt adds while the panic drains from his body and leaves him tired, aching and cold. He’s still sitting on Jaskier’s thighs, suddenly very aware of their physical closeness. His lips are tingling from being pressed against Jaskier’s. Now he can’t help but picture them kissing for real, under different circumstances. Jaskier gropes for Geralt’s hand and squeezes it.

“Thank you,” he whispers, and Geralt's heart jumps a little in his chest.

He stands and bends down to lift Jaskier into his arms, who protests only for a moment and then leans his head against Geralt’s shoulder, eyes closed as if he could falls asleep right then and there. Nobody has ever trusted Geralt like this. The strange fluttering feeling in his chest is persistent.

He lays Jaskier down gently next to the fire and wraps him in both their blankets. He stokes the flames and sits down, tired to his very bones and shivering from the cold. He doesn’t stand up to get his clothes, loathes to leave Jaskier’s side where Geralt can watch his chest is rising and falling steadily.

Geralt keeps a close eye on him. Just to be sure.


	3. the tavern

Three days on horseback and Geralt’s starting to regret the new status quo between him and Jaskier. He almost – almost, mind you – misses Jaskier’s running commentary on everything he sees or hears or happens to think of. Jaskier is still quiet and introspective and it drives Geralt nuts (but not enough to pluck up the courage to ask him about it).

When a village appears on the horizon, Geralt sighs with relief. A small reprieve from the weighing silence is exactly what he needs.

The only inn is a ramshackle building filled with drunkards on their slow and steady way to get drunk. It’s only afternoon. They find an empty table in the back and sink into their seats. Tall tankards of beer appear in front of them.

Geralt watches Jaskier take in the crowd. His gaze stops its journey halfway through, a surprised glint flashing through his eyes, too quick to decipher. Geralt’s not used to having to decipher anything with Jaskier and it’s starting to become a frequent and tiresome occurrence.

He sighs.

“See anybody you know?” 

Jaskier looks over at him before focusing on his beer. “Ahh, just, you know, an old acquaintance.”

Geralt waits a few slow heartbeats, but nothing follows. No outrageously exaggerated tale about how he met this person or the adventures they faced together. Nothing.

Jaskier drains the rest of his beer and stands, just the tiniest bit unsteady.

“Where are you going?” Geralt asks, tone a little sourer than intended, which might or might not be due to the uncertain status of that _acquaintance_. If he didn’t know better, he’d think he sounds jealous.

“I have to pee,” Jaskier states and it worries Geralt to no end that he declines to use any kind of euphemism to state that fact.

Jaskier leaves and stays gone a long time. Geralt finishes his beer and then another. He weighs the options. Jaskier might be talking to someone outside. He might have met his old friend and caught up with them. But what if he needs my help, an insistent voice in the back of his mind keeps nagging him. What if, what if.

Geralt tries to ignore it. Jaskier can look out for himself, if he’s not faced with a monster. What’s the probability of him running into danger again so soon after the episode by the lake?

Ah, fuck it.

He pushes himself up in his seat, his bones protesting with a pitiful popping sound. The crowd parts for him like it always does, especially when worry morphs his expression into something murderous.

The cold air outside clears his head in an instant. He looks left and right in search for the bard. Angry voices sound over from the back of the tavern.

“Oh, come on Jas, you didn’t play this hard to get when I last saw you,” a voice Geralt doesn’t recognize sneers.

Geralt rounds the corner as silently as he can.

“One last time, Gofric, I have no interest in anything you could offer.”

Geralt follows the voices and finds Jaskier caged against a wall by the massive guy from the tavern. Jaskier tries to push him away with little success. He looks more annoyed than afraid, but his voice gives away a hint of panic. Gofric paws Jaskier’s front as if he’s judging the condition of a horse at the market.

Bile rises in the back of Geralt’s throat.

“Don’t be so shy, little bard,” the man, Gofric, slurs.

Geralt has heard enough.

“I think you overestimate your appeal,” he growls and grabs Gofric by the back of his tunic. “The man said he’s not interested.”

Jaskier shoots him a look that’s equal parts grateful and embarrassed.

Although inebriated, Gofric proves to be stronger than Geralt anticipated. He turns in a flourish and hits him square in the jaw, freeing himself from Geralt’s grip in the process. While Geralt gathers his wits, Gofric pulls a knife from out of nowhere, and slashes blindly at him.

“Geralt!” Jaskier warns, but it’s too late, the knife already met Geralt’s thigh and leaves a nasty gash. He ignores it and clocks the bastard right in the temple, felling him like a tree. Gofric lands in a puddle of questionable origin with a satisfying splash. Geralt stops himself from adding a well-placed kick or two for good measure.

Jaskier is by his side a second later. “You’re hurt,” he whispers.

“It’s nothing,” Geralt says, although the gash hurts something awful. “I’ve had worse.”

* * *

As it turns out, he’s had worse, yes, but not by much.

They took a room at the tavern, and fall into bed fully clothed on the wide bed that offered plenty of space for both of them.

By midnight, Geralt has to admit that something’s decidedly not right. He gets up and lights a candle as quietly as possible. He can barely walk. Every step makes him clench his jaw against searing pain.

He sits down heavily in a chair next to the small table with the water basin and starts the complex ordeal to open his pants and boots and get out of both. He grunts every time the fabric touches the wound.

It had to happen eventually, given the noise he’s making, but when Jaskier stirs and mumbles “What’s happened?”, it still catches Geralt by surprise.

“It’s nothing, go back to sleep,” he murmurs.

“You sound awful.” The bedding rustles and then Jaskier is by his side. Geralt’s trousers are still halfway stuck on his legs. “What are you doing?”

“Uh, I just wanted to have a look at the wound,” Geralt says and closes his eyes for a moment against a sudden dizziness. A cool hand lands on his forehead.

“You are burning up!,” Jaskier observes. “Here, let me.”

Geralt doesn’t open his eyes, but he can sense Jaskier getting on his knees beside him. Jaskier peels the fabric carefully from his skin and gasps. Geralt can only presume he saw the wound and that it looks bad.

“Heavens,” Jaskier whispers, and that makes Geralt open his eyes and have a look for himself. The wound indeed does look horrible. The flesh around it shimmers in an angry dark red.

“The dagger. Must have been something wrong with it, magic maybe,” Geralt mumbles. He feels weak and sluggish.

“I’ll have to clean the wound,” Jaskier tells him.

Geralt hums his assent. It won’t be of any help if magic is in fact at play, but it won’t hurt either. Jaskier wets a clean cloth in the basin on the table and sets to work.

Okay, he’s been wrong about that last part. It _does_ hurt. He winces with every swipe of the cloth and bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from groaning.

Jaskier looks up now and then, a sympathetic glint in his eyes, but goes back to work immediately. Now and then he murmurs an almost inaudible soothing platitude, “it’s okay, it’ll be fine,” as if Geralt is a spooked animal. He finds it strangely comforting.

The wound is finally clean, but does not look any better. Jaskier leaves him for a few minutes to ask the innkeeper for bandages, and comes back with a basket full of fabric that seems reasonably clean. While Geralt watches Jaskier bandaging his thigh, he tries to pinpoint the strange feeling in his chest.

He realizes with a pang that he can’t remember when he was last being touched by another person without the intent to kill him or fuck him. When he was last treated with such care and obvious empathy. He rummages through his memories and comes up blank, and isn’t that a sad thought. Something pricks in the corner of his eyes, and he blinks to chase the odd sensation away.

When Jaskier is done, he stands and reaches out his hand wordlessly. Geralt swallows.

“Thank you,” he says simply, voice a little rough.

Jaskier just smiles and takes his hand to help him stand and leads him to the bed.

“You know, I’m appreciating this chance for us to get even. You help me, I help you, it’s good for our friendship,” he grins.

Geralt hums. He doesn’t tell Jaskier that Geralt saved his life at least five times now, and that the effort isn’t really a good trade for the sheer amount of annoyance Jaskier has already put him through. He feels a little lightheaded as it is and too weak to start an argument. Once he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, Jaskier lifts the covers for Geralt to crawl under. Geralt does just that with a grunt he tries to modulate to convey the fact that he does not need to be tugged in. Still, when the blanket is settled firmly around him and Jaskier sits down beside him to touch his forehead and his temples with a cool hand, it does feel nice, even he can admit that.

He falls asleep to a low, barely audible song Jaskier must be singing.

He’s startled awake again by the sound of a closing door. Disoriented, he pats the space next to him. His memory is hazy, but he’s sure Jaskier lay down next to him for a while. There’s still a slight dent in the mattress. It feels warm to the touch.

Geralt looks around the room, then out of the small window. It’s later than he thought, around noon if he had to guess. His head is pounding with each beat of his heart and his thigh feels swollen. The wound has gotten worse. Carefully, he lifts the covers. The bandage is dark with blood and going by the stench it is festering.

No wonder Jaskier fled the room.

 _Or maybe he left me here for good?_ It’s plausible. Yes, Jaskier owes him his life, but that doesn’t mean he has to stay by Geralt’s side while he’s slowly rotting from a wound he had brought upon himself. He lies back again, tired already from sitting up for a few minutes.

He watches the dust motes dancing in the air. A vague sense of urgency tickles the back of his mind, but he ignores it. There’s nothing he can do about the wound. He’s too weak to stand up, let alone leave the tavern and search for someone who could help him. But it’ll be okay, he’ll just have to rest a little longer …

When the door thuds open again, the room is dark. Geralt shivers. He blinks his eyes slowly, focusing on the single candle that’s floating through the room for whatever reason.

“You look like hell,” a familiar voice says, close by, worry etched in every syllable.

“J-“, Geralt tries to say his name, but his lips are not working properly. His mouth is dry.

Cool fingers skim over his cheeks, his temples. “You’re burning up. I’m so sorry I took so long, but it’s not that easy to find a mage in this fucking backwater of a town. Had to ride south and then that bloody sorcerer was nowhere to be found. I’m telling you, the subject ofmy next song will be a scathing review of his services … “ He drones on while he opens the door. A woman enters with two buckets full of steaming water. She pours them into the tub in the corner of the room.

“Thank you, Mylady,” Jaskier adds a deep bow which makes the woman who might very well have a bunch of greatgrandchildren giggle with delight. Jaskier turns back to the bed and picks up the threat of his rant. “As I was saying. Those Mages! Think they’re so much better than us lowly magicless creatures. Their arrogance really is unwarranted, presumptious little …”

“Jas-“ Geralt tries again and manages only a croak, but Jaskier heard him and runs back to his side. He pours a glass of water and brings it to Geralt’s lips carefully. Geralt drinks a few shallow sips. He’s never tasted anything more delicious.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “What are you doing here?”

“Me?” Jaskier touches his own chest in a dramatic gesture. “What do you mean? I’m saving you!” He indicates the tub that is currently filled with the next two buckets. “I had to spend our last coins on a seriously overpriced cure for your unfortunate predicament. And before that, I had to hunt down Gofric and relieve him of that blasted dagger of his. Found him still lying in that puddle.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I feared,” he starts and averts Geralt’s eyes. “I feared I might be too late.”

“You didn’t have to,” Geralt starts, but the look Jaskier flashes him makes him close his mouth again.

“Yes, I had to.” Jaskier’s lips are set in a grim line, but his eyes are sparkling with emotion. Geralt can’t quite make sense of the look, but something warm expands in his chest that’s not entirely caused by the fever. They hold each other’s gaze for a long moment. At last, Geralt sighs and closes his eyes. He’s in no condition to analyze what’s going on in the space behind his ribs right now. Must be a side-effect of the magic-induced injury.

A splashing sound carries over from the tub. More hot water. Jaskier thanks the woman again in hushed tones. The door closes. Jaskier putters around the room, still murmuring under his breath. The steps come closer again and fall quiet beside the bed. “Okay, let’s get you in there,” Jaskier says in a tone that must be accompanied by hands resting on his hips to underline his determination.

Geralt blinks his eyes open - Jaskier stand in just the position Geralt was sure to find him in - and glares. “And why are we doing that?”

“Because the herbs only work if you bathe in them,” Jaskier explains. “You didn’t have the foresight to let Gofric stab you in the hand or your calf, so here we are. Believe you me, I would prefer dipping one of your limbs into a bucket to the prospect of carrying your whole massive, half-unconscious body to that bathtub, Geralt.” He smacks his lips and leans in to lift the covers. When the stench of rotting flesh meets his nose, it crinkles in disgust.

Geralt lifts a hand to rub his forehead. It’s clear that Jaskier won’t let him die in peace. In stalling, he only puts off the inevitable. Jaskier will have his way, and if Geralt doesn’t cooperate, he might try to lift him against his will. That won’t end well. So he gathers his strength and sits up slowly. Jaskier’s hand is on his back in a second, supporting him.

Getting up and bridging the distance from the bed to the tub might very well be the most excruciating thing he ever did. He’s grunting and sweating and swearing by the time they reach their destination while Jaskier showers him with praise for every step and cheers him on the whole way.

Geralt lets the litany wash over him. He’s not quite used to the fact that someone cares this much whether he lives or dies.

The water is still hot when he steps inside the tub, leaning heavily on Jaskier’s shoulder. The herbs smell sharp and pungent, and mix with the odors of his own sick body in a most unpleasant way. He closes his nose against it as best he can and lowers himself into the water. When the liquid meets his wound, it sizzles with power. A flash of pain slashes through him, and if Jaskier hadn’t caught him, he might have stumbled and overturned the tub with him. He sits down, unable to keep a low moan in.

A tender touch strokes his hair from to the side. A cool washcloth appears on his neck. “Does it hurt?”

Geralt nods and tries to concentrate on how good it feels to be cared for. Ignore the pain. 

The herbs and the spell that sorcerer spoke over it do their magic. It feels as if the wound is getting cauterized, burning and biting deep inside his thigh. But Jaskier’s hands are soft, his fingertips sneak up through his hair, scrape over his scalp, and massage his temples. Geralt lets his head fall back, leans into the solicitous attention like a cat asking to be petted.

The pain ebbs and builds again in waves. The water cools to lukewarm. Dawn rises outside the small window. Slowly, the fever wears off and leaves him shivering. Geralt leans forward and lifts his thigh out of the water. The wound is still there, but colored in a healthy red and pink.

“I think it worked,” he murmurs, and Jaskier looks over his shoulder to assess the wound for himself.

“I looks much better.” His fingers are still tangled in Geralt’s hair and he draws his hand back with a low sound in his throat that sounds a little like regret.

Something’s shifted in the air between it. Geralt feels like he could touch it if he reached out.

“Thank you for saving my life,” he says, and he means it.

Jaskier clears his throat. “Thank you for not dying on me,” he answers, and Geralt has an inkling he meant it to sound more like a jest.

Geralt stands with aching joints and sore muscles. He’s never been so tired in his life. He dries himself with measured movements and crawls back under the covers. Jaskier stands in the middle of the room, as if he forgot how he came here. His hair is sticking up and dark rings are blooming under his eyes. Geralt pats the mattress next to him.

“Come to bed, Jaskier,” he mumbles, already half-asleep and not caring one bit how it might sound.

Blackness envelopes him.

The last thing he’s aware of is the bed dipping, the rustling of the blanket and the warmth of Jaskier’s body next to him.


	4. the forest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic keeps getting longer and longer and I have no idea why. The last chapter will probably take two weeks, or maybe I'll split it in two. Anyhow, thank y'all for your feedback and holy cow, all those subscriptions! I hope you enjoy!

Sunlight is pouring over them when Geralt awakes.

Afternoon.

He must have slept at least eight hours, which is five more than he gets in a usual night. His body feels loose and well-rested, warm and relaxed. Except for one part, that is.

He might have dreamed again, but as he tries to grasp the details, they dissolve to nothing but air and the distinct feeling that is was a _good_ dream.

It doesn’t help that Jaskier, who might have played a leading role in said dream, is plastered against his back, warm breath fanning over his shoulder blades, and arm slung possessively around Geralt’s middle, and, well, Jaskier is still young, so much younger than him, and his physical reactions are to be excused by that.

Jaskier is still sleeping. His heartbeat thumps slow and steady at Geralt’s back, and his breathing is even. Geralt lays still to bask in the moment a little longer. It’s been a long time since he woke up in another person’s arms, longer still that he felt a hard prick nestled neatly between his buttocks. It’s nice, but it makes his own situation even more pressing and undeniable.

When had he jerked off last? He _thinks_ it might have been a month ago, not a very memorable occurrence, borne more out of boredom and curiosity if everything still worked than out of necessity.

Now, though, he’d really like to be alone somewhere to have few minutes to himself. His cock is pulsing with a low, insistent need that’s impossible to ignore. His stomach is clenching and unclenching at random intervals, adding to the hum of pleasure racing through him whenever the blanket moves over his sensitive flesh.

Jaskier moves against him, presses closer for a moment with an appreciative little moan, and smacks his lips. He’s waking up.

Geralt debates staying in bed and letting it all play out, wherever it may lead. In flustered apologies, most likely, and them both not being able to meet the other one’s eye for a day.

There’s a chance, too, even if it’s a slim one, that him staying in bed would have a more drastic outcome. He could push back, wake up Jaskier that way, before turning around in his arms and kiss him senseless. The heat curling low in his groin likes that idea. But it wouldn’t be fair. If he started anything now, while Jaskier’s still half-conscious, he’d take away the choice from him. And there’s a lot to be considered before, if, when, - if they go down that road.

With a sigh, he rises and stalks over to his clothes. His back to Jaskier, he steps into his pants as silently and inconspicuously as he can. Jaskier mumbles something behind him and seems to pat the side of the mattress Geralt just vacated in search for him.

When his traitor of a cock is securely stuffed into his pants, Geralt tugs on his tunic and his armor with quick efficient movements. He turns, and almost regrets his decision. Jaskier lays in bed, watching him with soft eyes, a little puffy after just waking up, hair sticking up where his head had rested on the pillow, upper body naked and relaxed, a dark dusting of hair visible in the vee of his shirt. The blanket pools around his hips in a way that seems deliberate, but there’s not a hint of embarrassment on his features. He looks so adorable and delicious Geralt has to physically stop himself from licking his lips.

“Good morning,” he grumbles, voice hoarse after the long rest.

Jaskier beams at him. “Good morning! You look so much better!” His gaze slide along Geralt’s form appreciatively. Geralt cleares his throat when Jaskier’s eyes are halfway down to get him focused again on his face.

“We should be on our way,” he says, somewhat helplessly. “Still a good four hours of daylight, and we, uhm, we should move.” His mind is racing to come up with a good excuse to cut this whole conversation as short as possible and to get Jaskier out of that bed, to make him stop looking like _that_ , all warm and inviting. “You spent our last coin, we should look out for work.”

Jaskier holds his eyes for a long minute, the crease between his brows a telltale sign that he senses something off about Geralt. Which is not surprising, given that he just said more than he usually does in a day. While Geralt waits, he’s very aware of the fact that his blood is still pooling down low in his body, building into a solid ache that doesn’t seem to lessen anytime soon.

At last, Jaskier sighs, and throws the blanket off and to the side. For a second, Geralt’s mind screeches to a complete halt. Then he sighs in relief. The blanket uncovers Jaskier’s – thankfully – fully clothed lower body. And yeah, Geralt had known that, _felt_ that, but this is not the kind of situation where his logical capacities are their sharpest.

“’ll go down and see if we can get something to eat, while you,” he waves his hand at Jaskier who now finds it acceptable to stretch his lithe limbs in the middle of the room, “get ready,” he adds weakly and flees the room.

* * *

It’s good to be back on his horse, the familiar motion of Roach under his thighs soothing his jumbled thoughts. Jaskier is quiet for the first miles of their ride to the south.

“I want to apologize,” Jaskier says suddenly, apropos of nothing.

“Huh?” Geralt squints at him. “For what?”

“If I hadn’t been stupid enough to follow Gofric outside, that whole mess could have been avoided. You got hurt because I wasn’t able to defend myself.”

“Not the first time I had to save your hide,” Geralt murmurs. He doesn’t add that he doesn’t mind rescuing Jaskier as much as he did when they first met. A few months on the road together does that to you, at least it did it to him. He’s never been accused of a hero complex, but that’s maybe because nobody ever stayed long enough to see the pattern. He sees it though. He likes the way Jaskier’s eyes turn from panicked to relieved when he sees him. He never wanted anyone to need him.

Yet here we are.

“You didn’t have to rub that in, you know?” Jaskier rolls his eyes dramatically. “What I mean is, those – _few and unpredictable_ – occasions were always caused by supernatural creatures. I don’t mind that I don’t stand a chance against them, seeing that I’m only a simple human being, a talented one, but still human.”

_Nothing’s simple about you._

The sentence burns on the tip of Geralt’s tongue, but he swallows it with considerable effort.

“Go on,” he says instead. He has no clue where Jaskier is going with all this.

“I should have been able to stand up to Gofric on my own,” Jaskier says, mouth set to grim line that tells Geralt more than his words about how Jaskier must be feeling. His fingers itch with the urge to reach out and touch Jaskier’s shoulder, take some of the guilt off them. Jaskier has no reason to chastise himself – Geralt would punch a thousand drunkards for him. Just maybe not getting stabbed with cursed blades _every time_ , is all he asks for.

He opens his mouth to say something, assure Jaskier that he doesn’t blame him, but Jaskier, as always, is faster and quick to turn the conversation into a whole new direction.

“That’s why I need you to teach me to fight.” His eyes are big, building up to his best pleading look while his jaw is set in grim resolution. Geralt’s breath catches somewhere on his ribs and wheezes out of him. _He’s too beautiful for his own good_ , Geralt thinks, not for the first time, but maybe the first time with complete clarity.

“I, what?” He heard Jaskier just fine, but the question raises too many follow-up questions in his mind to sort through at the moment.

“I want to be able to defend myself. And you are the logical answer as to who should show me.” Jaskier must have thought about this a lot. No surprise he’s been quiet for so long.

Geralt has a lot of objections to that idea. First among them the fact that he has no idea how to teach someone to fight. The fighting, maiming, killing is part of him, part of his very being, he was made this way. He can replay every fight he ever had and won in minute detail, can tell when he pushed and when he retreated and when he punched and when he ducked. But that’s only after the fact. In the middle of it, he doesn’t think. He just reacts.

Second. Well second, he doesn’t want to fight Jaskier. As much as he likes the usual quick give and take of their banter – which ebbed a lot over the last few days and he’s ready to admit he misses it – he would never want to actually cause Jaskier pain.

Third, and that’s a big one, and he won’t be caught telling anyone under threat of torture, is the fact of the changing atmosphere between them and his growing need to do _something_ about it. To get physical like that with someone you desire and who supposedly has an interest in you as well – let’s just say fighting with Jaskier would be a hell lot more sexual than his usual bouts.

So he really should say no.

Jaskier stops his horse with a click of his tongue and a short pull on the reigns. “We’ve still got an hour of sunlight, and that,” he points over to a clearing in the thick forest surrounding them, “seems like a good spot to make camp.” He slides from the back of his horse and leads it over into the meadow.

Geralt sighs.

Jaskier throws his reigns over a low-hanging branch and tosses his jacket to the side while strides into the middle of the clearing. Obviously he’s past the point where he waits for Geralt to make up his mind. He seems so sure his every whim will be obliged. The thought should make ire rise inside Geralt, but he’s strangely enamored by Jaskier’s total lack of fear of him. He had been like that from the beginning. Geralt met seasoned warriors who scurried away in panic after one stern look from him. Yet Jaskier seemed to be immune to his moods and every one of his attempts to keep him at arm’s lentgh.

Geralt wonders, not for the first time, what Jaskier sees when he looks at him. A welcome source for his songs maybe. A chance at adventure.

Jaskier stops his stride and turns to face him. Geralt hops off Roach’s back and closes the distance between them. Jaskier might be right. It would be better if he could defend himself. Geralt could be too late one day, or otherwise engaged. He couldn’t bear the thought that one day, he might not be there to save the bothersome bard with the penchant for trouble.

Geralt tugs off his chest armor and lets it fall to down to the grass. He stops to tower over Jaskier, lets his face fall into the cold grimace of a witcher ready to kill, searching Jaskier’s eyes for any kind of weariness. He finds none. He shakes his head. Stupid, brave Jaskier.

“Okay. First lesson. If a man of my height and my built comes at you with this kind of expression,” he points at his own face, “you better run.”

Jaskier has the audacity to pout. “Yeah, yeah, but it’s _you_.”

What’s that even supposed to mean? Geralt is sure that Jaskier must have suffered some kind of brain damage in his life that he doesn’t seem to get the danger he stumbled into. “I could snap your neck before you had the time to blink, Jaskier.” His voice sounds defeated and disbelieving even to his own ears.

“But you wouldn’t. Look, I promise to run if I have the chance to. What I want to learn is what I’ll do in a situation where I can’t.”

“Hmmm,” Geralt says and contemplates how to best go about this. He could describe what he does but what good would that do? Jaskier doesn’t have his strength or his reflexes. They’ll have to work with what _Jaskier_ has.

“Hit me,” he says, and Jaskier blinks in surprise.

Geralt stands still, perfectly balanced on the balls of his feet. “I need to see how you’d go about it, otherwise I can’t tell you how to do it better,” he explains. “So hit me.”

Jaskier seems unsure, but a moment later, he sets his jaw and draws back his arm. Geralt sees the punch coming from a mile away. He deflects it at the last moment, makes Jaskier’s fist fall to his side like a dying flower.

“You went for my jaw,” Geralt says. “That’s only a good idea if you’re absolutely sure you’re able to knock me out.” He rubs his chin. “If your opponent is bigger and stronger than you, fighting fair will get you hurt or killed.” His stomach churns at the mere idea but he ignores it.

“When it comes to it, you’ll have to be ready to fight dirty.” He points at his throat. “A solid punch into the Adam’s apple will surprise most people, give you time to run. Try it.”

Jaskier is quicker this time. Geralt still catches his fist easily. Takes his in his hand and opens it. “Like this,” he says and shows Jaskier how to hit him right. His skin burns where Jaskier’s palm touches him.

“Again.”

Jaskier draws his arm back and lets it fly toward Geralt’s throat. A normal man would have been hit, but Geralt pulls back his head at the last moment.

“That’s better.” Jaskier beams at the praise, and damn, that does _things_ to Geralt.

He grabs Jaskier by the lapels of his loose shirt and draws him close. “Next lesson,” he growls. “What do you do now?”

“Uhm,” Jaskier says. “I’ll kick them, uhm, you in the balls?”

Geralt grins his most feral grin. “Hell yes, you do. But maybe not right now.”

Jaskier squints at him as if he’s contemplating it. “Well if you think I know how to do it right. Now what?”

Geralt’s mind is working furiously. Jaskier is so very close and Geralt still has his hands fisted in his shirt that’s falling open wide enough to give glimpse of his chest, his enticing clavicle and the soft rise of his shoulder. Geralt licks his lips. “I don’t know,” he says. “This is not a balanced fight. There’s no way you could take me down, so I-“

“Hey, woah, I could totally take you down,” Jaskier protests.

Geralt cocks a brow at him and smiles a little despite himself. “Could you now?”

Jaskier nods, bottom lip stuck forward petulantly and it’s most certainly _not_ adorable.

Geralt removes his hands from Jaskier’s shirt slowly and brushes the wrinkles out of the fabric without thinking. He opens his stance to stand firmly on both feet, hands resting at his sides. “Okay,” he says. “Try your worst.”

“You sure?” Jaskier grins at him, an evil twinkle in his eye.

Geralt’s blood is rushing through his veins, every sense heightened and completely focused on Jaskier. There’s no way-

A few things happen almost at once then.

Jaskier leans forward, Geralt does not flinch back, Jaskier leans closer.

Until his lips meets Geralt’s.

Geralt gasps in surprise.

Jaskier curls his right foot around his leg and tugs. Before his mind can make sense of what just happened, he’s lying on his back, Jaskier straddling his thighs with a whoop of triumph, Geralt’s arms stretched above his head, held down by Jaskier with surprising strength.

 _What the hell_ , he thinks, every thought slow as molasses.

Jaskier’s eyes are gleaming with joy, just a few inches from Geralt’s face.

“Told you I could do it,” he grins, and Geralt can’t help but grin back.

“That was a nasty little trick,” he admits, lips still tingling from the quick and dirty kiss. He takes a deep breath. His body is responding violently to Jaskier proximity, the weight on top of him, the memory of those lips pressed against his own.

Jaskier’s exited wriggling doesn’t help things in the slightest. He’s filling out in his pants fast enough to make his head dizzy with the sudden change in blood pressure. Any minute now, Jaskier will receive a very clear message concerning his effect on Geralt.

“You’re aware that I could toss you off and kill you in a heartbeat, right?” He snarls.

“Oh my,” Jaskier gasps in mock terror. He seems to think of another jibe, when his face falls slack. So much about distracting him. Jaskier hums and closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them again, they’re blazing with desire. He’s biting his bottom lip, white teeth sinking into plush red skin. “So what you’re saying is, I have to distract you again?” His eyes are glued to Geralt’s lips.

Geralt has never felt more helpless in his whole existence. He’s fought this attraction from day one, only to find himself sinking deeper and deeper into the thrall. Fearless, teasing, obnoxious Jaskier. It’ll have to end one day, one day soon, but he’s finally given up on trying to fight it.

“Yeah, I mean, from a strategic view-“

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence. Jaskier is on him again, soft lips closing over his with a small moan that travels through Geralt’s body right down to his dick. Jaskier releases his hands to tangle his fingers in Geralt’s hair, and Geralt’s own hands fly up to settle on Jaskier’s hips as if they belong there more than anywhere else. The kiss deepens, evolves from brushing lips to exploring tongues. With every curl of Jaskier’s tongue inside his mouth, pleasure rises inside him. He always knew Jaskier would be a skilled lover, but it’s still a shock to see how fast he can turn Geralt into a needy mess with that clever mouth of his.

Jaskier’s rubbing his ass against Geralt’s cock like he’s aching for it, while rocking his own erection against Geralt’s stomach in search for friction.

“I wanted you ever since I first saw you,” Jaskier mumbles against his lips. “All brooding and stand-offish.”

Geralt holds Jaskier’s hips in place to thrust up against him, lips searching along his jaw and to his neck. God, the way he smells, all sweet and male. Geralt closes his lips over his pulse-point and sucks a mark into his skin, making Jaskier arc his back and groan.

“I didn’t know,” he answers at last.

“Oh, I realize that. And I haven’t exactly been subtle about my advances, I don’t think.”

Well, Geralt knows to read the glances and the way stranger’s eyes rove over his body. He sees the phantasies dancing over their faces, - what if - , but every time, the realization of what he is follows straight behind, and the glances slip away in disgust and embarrassment.

It’s dawning on him now, that somewhere in the back of his mind, he waited for Jaskier to do the same, to realize his mistake and move on. But he never did, did he?

Fearless.

In Jaskier’s eyes he feels like a man, not like a monster. It’s an elating thought, to find someone who’s so ready to see the best in him when the whole world is not. The strange fluttering in his chest is back. He tests out its contours. It might be happiness.

“So making a noblewoman come on your mouth is your idea of a subtle advance?” Geralt chuckles.

“I had to see how you’d react!” Jaskier grins and undulates his hips again in that sinful way that makes Geralt see stars.

“And being eating by a lake monster would have opened my eyes in what way exactly?” Geralt can’t help but ask while he rocks his lower body up and makes Jaskier gasp.

“Well that wasn’t part of the plan. Getting naked and frisky in the water would have been.” He’s getting a little breathless with his explanation and Geralt can relate. The easy slide of their bodies against each other takes on another level of urgency. Geralt pushes up until Jaskier sits in his lap. The thumbs along Jaskier’s jaw, his dimpled chin, over his reddened lips.

“You could have just asked,” he murmurs.

Jaskier licks his lips, trails his tongue along the pad of Geralt’s thumb as if on accident. It sends a small shock of pleasure along Geralt’s spine.

“Yeah, that would have gone over well if you weren’t interested, or were interested but in denial about it. I’ve been around, you know, even if I’m not old as dirt like _some_ people.” He grins wickedly at Geralt’s indignation. “I’m afraid some of my plans didn’t work out so well, but you gotta admit that my persistence paid off.” He grinds down in Geralt’s lap and pushes a moan out of them both. It gets lost when Geralt kisses Jaskier again.

Jaskier’s hands find their way under Geralt’s shirt, trail along his sides and leave goosebumps in their wake. The shirt is pushed over his head in a single motion and tossed aside carelessly, while Jaskier’s hands keep roaming. The appreciative look on Jaskier’s face makes Geralt push out his chest a little more. He’s showing off, but god, he’d do far worse things to see that expression of utter need on Jaskier’s face.

And he wants to see and feel, too. He tugs Jaskier’s shirt off and lets himself admire the sight he only had glimpses of before. Dark hair covers Jaskier’s well-built torso, narrows into a line that leads past his navel like an arrow advertising the significant bulge in his pants.

Geralt’s mouth waters. He dips his head down to take on of Jaskier’s rosy nipples between his lips, and grins when he’s rewarded with a short yelp that ends in a delighted gasp. He could spend hours like this, teasing Jaskier with words and lips and hands, but the want cursing through him is becoming too strong to deny, so he rests his fingertips lightly on the button of Jaskier’s pants and looks up at him through his lashes, brow curved in question.

Jaskier slaps his shoulder. “What kind of dumb question is that?”

Geralt hums under his breath and unfastens the pants as quick as he can (not as quick as he would want), and Jaskier’s cock springs free, right into Geralt’s waiting hands. He gives it a few strokes, testing out pressure, angle, rhythm, and finds that Jaskier responds to each and everything Geralt tries with the same enthusiasm, as if having Geralt’s hand on him is enough to drive him crazy. And isn’t that stroking his ego more like winning a fight. He wants to bend Jaskier back and swallow him whole, and he makes a mental note to do that (later), because right now, h’s shaking with the need for friction and another body close to his.

Jaskier seems to follow the same train of thought because he’s already fumbling with Geralt’s pants and almost rips them open when the fastenings won’t budge. Geralt shoves his hand away with a chuckle and undoes the leather straps himself. He’s very aware of Jaskier’s stare and tempted to draw this out, make a show out of it for his audience of one. He loves to have Jaskier’s expressive eyes on him, hungry and adoring. It makes him feel cherished in a way he seldom (or maybe never, a tiny voice whispers) did before.

The last string gone, he groans when he’s finally free of the confines and his erection can curve proudly up against his abdomen, at attention under Jaskier’s enraptured gaze.

“Holy heavens,” Jaskier wheezes and stretches out a tentative hand to run a fingertip along Geralt’s length. Geralt shudders even from that light caress. It’s been too long, and he’s starved enough that he has to grip Jaskier’s hip to keep himself from pushing into Jaskier’s hand like a cat in heat.

Jaskier keeps to his slow exploration, testing the girth with a careful curl of his hand and dibs his thump into the bead of precome that forms at the crown. Geralt shudders and trembles through it all, but he says nothing, let’s Jaskier play him like a fiddle (or a lute for that matter), even if every nerve inside him screams for release.

Jaskier looks up at him as if he’s waking from a stupor, shakes himself a little as if to clear his head.

“That’s … uhm … quite proportional,” he says weakly, and Geralt finally gives in and pushes up into Jaskier’s hand which closes around him probably more out of reflex that conscious decision. He groans at the feeling of having another person touch him like this, dives forward again to meet Jaskier in a deep and heated kiss. Pulling on his hips, he drags Jaskier closer in his lap, until their cocks almost brush against each other, and isn’t that an idea.

He captures both of them, over Jaskier’s hand that’s still curled around him, and sets a pace that has them both panting in no time. Jaskier thrusts up with every stroke, adding the most delicious slide of them against one another, the tip of his cock bumping against the sensitive spot right under the head of Geralt’s. If they keep this up, he won’t last long.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice already hoarse from too much panting.

“My thoughts … exactly,” Jaskier rasps in answer. They built a rhythm, but soon it begins to crumble again, becomes frantic and uncoordinated, but still so goddamn good, Geralt’s heart aches with it, and his groin tightens with it, and his back arcs with it.

Jaskier’s free hand is in his hair again, tugging on his scalp and sending tendrils of pleasure-pain along his spine. His lips are on Geralt’s neck, licking and sucking and breathing hot against the sensitive skin. Geralt can do nothing but hold him close, fuck their combined fists and growl Jaskier’s name between colorful curses and helpless groans.

The sun sets over the trees, blinding him for a second with a perfect dying ray of light. His blood roars in his ears, burns its way through his veins, and Jaskier – Jaskier stops moving, stops breathing, tenses in his lap.

“Come on,” Geralt murmurs, and Jaskier cries out and comes in long waves, splattering his release all over Geralt’s chest and stomach scorching his skin and marking him.

His own climax surges from somewhere deep inside, powerful and unstoppable, threatens to drag him under and numbs his mind. Jaskier’s name is on his lips when he succumbs. His cock jerks in his hand, spits out pulse after pulse of come, while shudders with the exquisite pleasure of it.

When he opens his eyes, Jaskier’s staring again, mouth slack, lips slick and bitten ruby red. He smacks Geralt’s shoulder again.

“We could have done this months ago, Geralt! Months,” he admonishes.

Geralt tugs him into his arms, ignoring the sticky mess between them, and rests his head on Jaskier’s shoulder for a moment. Just until he can breathe properly again and the specks of light stop dancing in the corner of his vision.

Jaskier is stroking his back in loose circles. They’ll have to get up and make camp soon. With the sun gone, the cold is already rising from the ground.

 _I wasn’t ready_ , Geralt wants to say. He hums instead, saving this confession for another day.


	5. the castle

The castle looms over a rocky hill, shrouded in low-hanging clouds and p ers istent fog. A small entourage ha s  gathered a safe distance from the gate – the burly man in the middle must be the baron owning the lands  sprawling around the castle. N ext to him st ands a tall female figure, his third wife, lips curled in distaste when he r gaze traveled over Geralt. 

“Witcher,” the baron grunts when Geralt and Jaskier are in hearing distance. They dismount.

“Baron Alfgar,” Geralt dips his head in greeting. They’d heard about the haunted castle a few villages over, and Geralt had insisted they’d ride through the night. Jaskier’d been in a gloomy mood the whole time. 

Apparently Alfgar waits for him to say something, but Geralt doesn’t elaborate on his greetings. After a minute or two of silence, Jaskier clears his throat.

“So it seems you have a problem? Word is that only a witcher will be able to solve it?”

Alfgar nods. “My castle is haunted by an evil spirit. Men who enter come out again without their wits, mad with rage, most of them unable to tell us what happened. The last one, my trusted knight Merron, rambled  incoherently  about a woman he is in love with. From what happened, we concluded that the spirit uses the emotions of those entering the castle against them.”

Jaskier’s lips  stretch into a grim line. He obviously doesn’t like where this is leading. Geralt has a queasy feeling in his stomach, too. 

Alfgar turns to Geralt. “Seeing as witchers don’t have any emotions, you are our only hope. I’ll pay you your horse’s weight in gold if you rid us of that ghastly spirit.”

""Hmmm.” Geralt rubs his chin and looks up to the windows of the castle. Something moves behind the stained glass. He eyes the gathered crowd and meets the gaze of a woman, clad in simple clothes, a maid maybe. There’s a plea in her eyes, and he’d bet good money that she’s the woman the knight Merron thought about when he lost his mind. 

Alfgar is right. Geralt is the right man for this job, and he can’t turn away from this. Sq u ring his shoulders, he nods. 

Jaskier grips his arm. “This is so very much not a good idea.”

Geralt’s not sure he’s ready to face him yet, so he focuses on Jaskier’s hand on his elbow. “It’s what I do, Jaskier. You know that,” he says softly.

He takes Jaskier’s hand off his elbow and squeezes it quickly, before he turns and follows Alfgar to the gate.

They hadn’t talked about what happened. The next morning, they had packed their things and climbed their horses and rode back to the road in silence. After an hour or two on the road, Jaskier had halted his horse all of a sudden so Geralt turned to look at him.

“Do you regret it?”, Jaskier had asked, eyes ablaze with indignation and hurt.

“No,” Geralt had said, truthfully, because he couldn’t regret it, even if he didn’t know what to make of it either.

Jaskier had held his eyes for a minute that stretched endlessly. Then he’s clicked his tongue and faced the road again, silent for the rest of day.

The castle is cold and the floor is already covered by a layer of dust. Geralt always admired the ferociousness of any castle’s staff for taking up the fight against the grime and the dust every single day. Seeing what a few weeks without care did to the place made one appreciate their vigor. Geralt follows the visible footsteps in the dust up the staircase and to the east to the room where he saw the shadow behind the window.

When he enters, a cold draft tickles his skin. The curtains billow with it. The air shimmers with magic. Geralt anticipated that.  Everything about this job reeks of the supernatural. 

“Hello?” he says, eyes narrowed on a spot in the far corner of the room. He holds his hands out to his sides in a gesture of peace, even though whatever he’s facing will not be hurt by normal weapons. 

He packed a few potions and a silver knife, but he’s almost sure he’ll have to talk his way through this instead of fighting. The air shimmers again, and the room around him changes. He looks aroun d and recognizes the scene. It’s the ballroom and Geralt watches again as Jaskier kisses the woman in the hallway. A sharp stab in his chest makes him gasp. He hadn’t felt it in that moment, but now it’s here, and he knows what it is. Jealousy. Jaskier kisses the woman, smiles against her lips, and Geralt is contemplating turning around or closing his eyes, but he doesn’t because he’s  clearly  supposed to watch this even if he doesn’t know why. 

The image of  Ja s kier sinks down to one knee in front of the woman. This is not what happened before.  Jaskier touches her hand delicately and says something Gerslt can’t make out, but the next gesture speaks for itself: Jaskier asks her if she wants to marry her.  The  air pressure drops and Geralt finds it hard to breathe. He sinks back against the stone pillar, surprised to find it solid  even  in this hallucination. 

Everything in him wants to go over to the couple and stop it, stop Jaskier from asking, stop her from saying  _yes_ , but they look happy,  don’t they,  and who is he to stand between them.  S o he tries to catch his breath and blinks against to sudden rage inside him. The scene freezes when Jaskier stands and takes the woman in his arms, both of them beaming with happiness. 

The air moves again. This time he  takes a little longer to recognize what’s shown.  It’s the half-lit alley behind the tavern. Jaskier comes into view right next to that guy,  what was his name.

Gofric. 

Geralt’s blood boils at the sight of him, his fists closing so tight he can feel the outlines of his fingernails  digging  in his palms. He’s about to step towards them, step between them, even it if means he’ll get stabbed again.  He’d step between them even if it’d cost his life.

B ut  something’s different. H e stops at the last moment, because … Jaskier isn’t frightened this time.  No, this Jaskier bites his bottom lip and grins around it, eyes gleaming with want. Gofric leans in closer, captures Jaskier’s lips with his own. And Jaskier sighs that happy little sigh  that  he does when he can finally feel you close. Geralt knows that sound,  has it etched in his memory from the clearing in the forest that seems as far away now as the moon. 

Gofric wedges a knee between Jaskier’s thighs, presses him against the wall and groans while Jaskier grabs his shoulder and hoists himself up until he wraps his legs a round Gofric’s middle. Geralt wants to scream. He imagines the sound s Gofric’s bone will make under his hands when he snaps his legs, his arms, his neck,  can almost feels them cracking . But he does none of  it . The scene freezes again, and Geralt takes his chance to heave a deep breath, trying to loosen his shoulders, because he realizes now how the ghost drove all these men insane.  He tries to fortify himself for what’s coming, making him numb against what’s shown to him, tells himself it’s not real. 

I t goes on and on. 

Jaskier, mocking him for his feelings, in bed with other men, women, sometimes both at the same time, confessing his love to them, fucking them, growing old with them. All of Geralt’s most  suppressed fears, dragged into the light.  It might not be real, but the surges of lust and jealousy and rage are.  And he keeps himself in check through all of it, though his heart breaks and his  anger rises and his jealousy makes his throat tighten. 

The latest scene evaporates.

Geralt’s kneeling in the corner, trembling. The door swings open with a loud clang. Geralt looks up, tears stinging in the corner of his eyes. It all comes back to him, like it always does between episodes, the cursed castle and the images. He’d fallen for it.

This one is new. Jaskier enters, a concerned look on his face.

“Geralt,” he asks.

Another hallucination. Geralt sighs. Might as well let the scene unfold. Jaskier sits down on  a cushioned chair next to him, a cloud of dust rises from the fraying fabric. Jaskier reaches out, tugs a stray strand of his hair behind Geralt’s ear.  And Geralt, damn his weakness, leans into the touch, hoping against all hope that this time, he will be shown something that won’t break his heart. 

He’s  still  afraid to reach out, fears to see  a n expression of  mockery or pity on Jaskier’s face again. 

“I was worried,” Jaskier says softly when Geralt doesn’t move. “You’ve been here for two weeks.”

Geralt nods. This kind of magic messes with time. Might be the reason why he feels so lightheaded.

“They wouldn’t let me come in,” Jaskier continues.

“They shouldn’t have,” he answers, but it’s little more than a croak. “It’s dangerous.”

“Well, they didn’t. I found a way around the guards.” Jaskier fumbles with the satchel he’s carrying over his shoulder. “Still, I would have been here earlier. I had to get help first,” he adds and produces a small piece of cloth filled with herbs going by the pungent smell. 

Geralt feels like he’s been  knocked over the head,  his thoughts jumbled and out of order . “I’m sorry,” he says. 

Jaskier looks up at him with bright eyes and smiles. “You better be. You shouldn’t have gone in here in the first place.”

“It’s my job. Nobody else could do it.”

Jaskier’s eyes narrow into slits. “A lot of people could have, Geralt. It was a massively dumb decision, considering...” He looks like he wants to say more but concentrates on his herbs instead. He fills them into a small silver bowl he produces from one of the million pockets in his extravagant garments (light blue satin today, which makes his eyes shine and his skin look like honey, Geralt notices).

“So what did you see?”

Of all the cruel tests he’s been put through, this might be the worst. Geralt clears his throat. “You know what I saw,” he rasps, suddenly tired of all this. He managed fine to ignore the feelings he’d developed for Jaskier for a long while. It’s just his luck to stumble into a situation that forces him to face them, live through them so often even he can’t fool himself any longer.

Jaskier searches his face, worry and fear and hope written clear in his expressive features. “No, I don’t.” His voice is low and unsure.

Geralt rubs his face. His hand comes away wet. 

Huh. 

He wipes it on  his pants which are downright filthy from the dust and grime in the room . 

“I saw you, Jaskier, getting engaged to a woman, kissing another man. I never knew I could be this jealous. And now you’re here again, and I don’t think I can take anymore of it.” He buries his head in his hands. 

His hands are tugged from his face. “You saw me?”

Geralt grunts. “ Of course I saw you, and I was damn  close to kill ing you when I saw you with them, laughing at me. ”

“And did you? Hurt that version of me?”

Geralt shrugs.

“You didn’t, did you? God Geralt, you’re half starved to death and who knows what that magic did to you, and still you’re so goddamn noble!” He gesticulates wildly. “How am I supposed to not be in love with you?”

Geralt’s hearts stops for a whole minute. It won’t kill him, but it feels a lot like it could.

“You. What.”

Jaskier punches his shoulder. Harder that he should be able to.

“Of course, you stupid, handsome, dumb idiot.”

Geralt grins despite himself. “Handsome?”

“Sure, if that’s what you want to take away from it,” Jaskier grumbles, but a smile tugs on the corners of his mouth.

He lights the herbs on fire with a match. A sharp scent rises up with the flame and smoke curls from the burning herbs. “I call you forth,” Jaskier says, “to show us what you shield from us.”

A white spot flickers in the corner of Geralt’s vision. Slowly, it forms into the silhouette of a woman in long white gown. Her pale skin shimmers.

Jaskier grabs Geralt’s hand and squeezes it for a short moment, before he stands and faces the apparition. “I want you to free this man,” he says.

The voice that’s drifting over to them sounds brittle and distant as if it’s coming from a mile away. The figure moves slowly towards them.

“Why should I?” the ghost, a woman, asks.

“Because he endured your fabrications for longer than anybody before. He didn’t lose his mind. You like to destroy the one’s who are in love. Maybe he’s not the right target.”

The voice laughs, a high and piercing sound without humor. Like crashing glass.

“Oh, he’s the right target. And you misjudge me. I don’t destroy by choice, I destroy by chance. I don’t make them crazy, I only test them.” The voice drifts off as if the ghost is deep in thought.

“He proved himself worthy, I admit. You say I drive those insane who are in love, but I say, they lose their wits because they don’t love enough. I show them what could be, and they have a choice, each time, to put their love first, or to act on their lowest instincts.”

Coldness creeps up Geralt’s neck.

“A man once told me he loved me,” she singsongs in the still dead air. “And I believed him. And then I found him in that bed with another,” an arm stretches toward the north corner of the chamber. “I ended our engagement. He didn’t want me, but he couldn’t stand the rejection. I died in this room.”

Jaskier gasps next to him.

Geralt shakes his head to clear his thoughts. “So you, what? Wanted revenge and sought it from the first poor sod who stumbled into your room?”

“No,” she screams, “no. I wanted proof that true, unselfish love does not exist.”

“You’re right. It doesn’t,” Geralt says, tired all of a sudden, and Jaskier’s head snaps toward him. “I’ve never seen it. Love is always selfish and greedy.”

Jaskier grabs his shoulder and squeezes, hard. “But you…” he starts. Geralt doesn’t let him finish.

“But what, Jaskier? Everything I feel for you, it’s selfish. I want you for myself, even though I know I will lose you again someday. I’m greedy enough to want you, and hold you back from leading a normal, happy life. There’s nothing I can offer, just blood and fighting and my name whispered in hushed tones when parents want to scare their children.”

Jaskier is in his face all of a sudden, forehead pressed to his, close enough for their breaths to mingle. His hands are warm and steady on Geralt’s neck.

“I take it, whatever you are ready to offer, I thought I made that clear.” His eyes bore into his, a blue blur from up close.

Geralt huffs a laugh. “An infatuation, nothing more.”

The voice speaks up again. “So he loves you enough to follow your path, to be an outcast with you, and you don’t believe him? I must admit, that is a story I haven’t heard before.”

“You leave him out of it,” Geralt grunts, even when he knows it’s an empty threat.

J askier shakes him roughly. “You’re an ass, Geralt, you know that? I intimately know what an infatuation feels like, since I fall for people all the fucking time. This, you and me? That’s different.”  H is thumbs stroke s along Geralt’s jaw. “I love you, thick skull and bloody profession and all. Please believe me.”

Geralt closes his eyes against the surge of emotion that rises in his chest, that constricts his lungs and leaves a hollow pit in his stomach. He wants to believe it. He wants to believe Jaskier will not leave him, and won’t accuse him for stealing his chance at a normal life later.

“I believe him,” the voice speaks up. It’s lower now than before, as if its tether to this world is weakening. “You love him enough to let him go, and he loves you enough to stay. I found my answer,” she’s barely audible now. The figure dissipates slowly in soft breeze.

“You’re better off without me,” Geralt tries one last time. 

Jaskier smiles, wide,  teeth bared in his triumph. “Yes, yes, but I’m my very best at your side.” He leans in until his lips almost brush against Geralt’s. “Will you have me?”

And how is Geralt supposed to say no. It took him long enough to realize what Jaskier meant to him, but now that he accepted it, he feels like he’s bursting with it.

“Hmmmm,” he says and lets a small smile of his own tug the corner of his mouth upward. Jaskier seems content with that answer, flashes a quick, elated grin before he brings their mouths together in an almost chaste kiss.

“Let’s get out of here,” he mumbles. He stands and offers his hand to Geralt. 

G eralt,  because he is weak and selfish, takes it. 


	6. the bed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long, but the chapter fought me and I simply didn't have time to sit down and wrestle it into submission. In the end, it turned out that I had to split it, but as a thank you to everyone's patience, I'm posting both parts in onw go. I'm so happy so many people enjoyed my little story and I hope you'll like the last chapters, too.
> 
> Kudos and comments make my day:-)

Alfgar ordered a week of celebration and they already feasted for four days straight.

Geralt would have been happy to leave the castle right after they explained what happened and be on his way again, but Jaskier’s eyes lit up when he heard about the hastily planned festivities and Geralt hadn’t had the heart tell him no.

Jaskier is the hero of the hour. He entertains the court with his songs, the new ballad of the lady in white bringing tears to the eyes of all the ladies and most of the noblemen who hastily dab at their eyes and pretend to dry their sweating temples. Geralt slinks around on the edges of the great hall, too antsy to stay in his seat at the high table for long.

When it’s late enough to excuse himself, he bids farewell to the other guests and takes the stairs, two or three steps at a time, desperate for the silence and peace of their room.

They shared a bed for three nights now, and Geralt is slowly getting used to the thought. He stokes the fire in the wide hearth, undresses and crawls under he luxurious silken sheets. The fabric glides over his skin like a caress and makes him shiver.

Memories of the past nights flood his mind, and for once, he welcomes them. Jaskier sprawled on the big bed, thighs open in invitation, a gleam in his eye as he plays with his nipples, taunting Geralt. There’s a lot to be said for short and urgent trysts on the road, but he’s developed an appreciation for the slow and lazy afternoons and nights he shares with Jaskier now.

He lays back into the soft pillows and drags a hand down his chest. Jaskier won’t be here for another hour or two, and Geralt already misses him. His nipples are hard from the cold air and the soft glide of the silk. He pinches one, gasps at the sensation. He never took the time to explore himself like this. On the road, he granted himself only quick relief. Most evenings he was too tired for even that. Now he has time, for the first time in his life, to find out what he likes. And he wants to know, wants to show Jaskier like Jaskier shows him.

He opens his thighs and sneaks a hand down between his legs, strokes along the sensitive skin on the insides and upwards to his filling cock. It doesn’t take much these days to turn him on. He feels like a teenager when Jaskier is around, always so reeading to share deep, lingering kisses and whisper words in his ear that range from sweet to obscene and make Geralt blush in both cases.

He’s not used to the softness, and to being adored and _seen_ like this. He still catches himself at trying to hide his reactions. Jaskier is having none of it. If Geralt turns his head or deflects one of Jaskier’s myriad of compliments, he’s being stared at for however long it takes for Geralt to face him again and accept it.

Jaskier changed, too. The episode at the castle showed him that he’s more than a bard, that he can be a hero, too, and right now he learns that his craft has a real impact on the way history is written. Geralt knows he’s still insecure about his art, and that the boisterous facade is just that – a role he plays for the crowd. In the silent hours of the night, Geralt gets to see the real man behind the fashionable, morally questionable peacock.

Thinking of Jaskier makes a low want pulse inside him just as it lets his hearts swell in his chest. His blood seems indecisive where it’s most needed, but a slow drag of his palm against his length tips the scale. He hums under his breath when he feels himself hardening under his palm. He gives his cock a few strokes, just because he can, but another plan forms in his mind even as he does it.

The vial with scented oil stands on a low table next to the bed, a constant reminder of the things that expired in this room just this afternoon. He grabs it and pours a few drops into his palm before he can change his mind. He’s never done this before, mostly due to lack of opportunity, but partly because the mere thought makes him feel vulnerable and exposed in a way he wasn’t able to allow himself until now. He rubs the oil between his fingertips. The scent of fresh green grass and lavender in full bloom fills his nose. His body already made the connection and his cock pulses with want and the need to be touched, to sink into another body.

He ignores it and lifts the covers and bring his slick hand down between his legs, reaching back to coat his entrance with oil. The first touch makes him moan. He didn’t know he’d be so sensitive, that even this light touch could make his toes curl. He rubs the furled skin, lost to the sensation. His cock weeps a drop of precome onto his stomach.

Biting his tongue, he presses his index finger inside himself. It’s unbearably tight, much tighter than when he does this to Jaskier. He wills his body to relax and allow the intrusion, breathes deeply in and out, which isn’t easy with his heart beating like he just ran a mile. He feels ridiculous, about to loose his nerve. But he has a goal here, he needs to know what it’s like and if he wants to share it with Jaskier.

Exhaling slowly, he presses in. It’s tight and so warm and oh, it feels … weird, but good. Once he’s relaxed enough that his finger doesn’t feel like it’s crushed in a vice, he wriggles his finger deeper. There’s this spot he wants to reach, the one that makes Jaskier croon and pant and utter silly curses. He adjusts his angle, opens his thighs even further, feet planted firmly on the mattress. It takes a lot of missed tries and meticulous maneuvering, but then, well he knows exactly when he finds it. A shiver runs through his whole body, as if all his nerves have been struck like the cords of a lute.

“Oh,” he mutters. And then, breathlessly, “fuck.”

His cock has softened over the course of the last half hour, clearly discouraged by Geralts awkward fumbling, but comes to life again now and strains against his stomach in search for friction. Geralt, emboldened, sinks another digit inside him, his rim giving way with the slightest of burns. He pumps both fingers in and out experimentally, and throws his head back at the feeling of pressure and fullness.

Sweat is beading on his brow, his temples, his chest, his groin. He’s hot all over, every touch of the silk against his skin heightening the pleasure that radiates from his middle. When he can’t take it anymore, he brings a hand down to his cock and circles it with his fist. His hips surge up from bed, pumping up into the tunnel of his palm, while he’s fucking himself with the index and middle finger of his other hand, pushing deep to find that perfect spot on every other thrust.

The pleasure is building from the inside out, wrecking him with tendrils of heat curling along his spine, tighter and tighter. He tries to hold the sounds in, even if nobody will hear him, panting through his nose, desperate to get enough air. His climax builds differently this way, in long waves that overlap each other and send ripples through him every time they cross. When he comes, it’s almost a surprise, a wave just slightly bigger than the others, tugging him under with bliss and relief. Thick spurts land on his stomach and his chest, pulse after pulse as he feels himself constricting around his fingers with each spurt.

Well, who would have known. He’s weirdly proud of himself.

Carefully, he frees his finger, and pushes the blanket away, thankful for the cool breeze on his overheated skin.

He reaches for his shirt and fetches it from the floor to wipe away his cooling release. When his heart slows down, he tugs the blanket back over himself and falls asleep as soon as his head meets the pillow.

Geralt awakes when the bed rustles under the weight of another person. Usually, he’d be up and alert as soon as the door opened. It shows how exhausted he was, completely knocked out by that amazing orgasm. He breathes in deep. Jaskier. Wine and perfume and under that his own, purely male scent. Geralt settles back and Jaskier snuggles against his back, tucking his cold feet between Geralt’s own to warm them.

“Hmmm,” Jaskier hums contently. His chest hair tickles Geralt’s back when he gets comfortable. A wet kiss is dropped on his neck, and Geralt smiles despite himself.

“Did you have a good evening,” he asks.

“Oh yes, everybody loved my new song. A pity you missed it,” Jaskier murmurs against his skin.

“I listened to it about a hundred times over the last days,” Geralt reminds him, but doesn’t get a reply.

A cool hand travels over his hip while a not-quite-as-cool-lower body is pressing closer. Jaskier might have had a very long day, but not all of him seems tired. They’re close enough that Geralt feels Jaskier harden and lengthening in record time against his ass. He debates ignoring it, leaving the revelation of the evening for another day, and just going back to sleep since Jaskier makes no move other than the light soothing strokes along his hip. Jaskier’s breath is slow and even on his neck.

He might have already fallen asleep.

It’s now or never.

Gathering his courage, he wriggles back against Jaskier, who chuckles under his breath. “You go on like that and I won’t be able to sleep.”

Unable to say it out loud, to tell Jaskier what he craves, Geralt moves back again, until Jaskier’s cock is seated flush to his crack. His heart is hammering in his chest, his mouth dry as dust. Jaskier’s hand on his hip stops. Then slowly wanders down to his thigh, circles it until it’s resting between his legs. And stops again.

“What, uhm.”

Geralt lifts his left knee a little to give him more access, pushes his backside into Jaskier’s hand like a cat in heat. He has to get his point along, which isn’t all that easy when one’s not able to ask for it.

Jaskier catches his meaning, thank the gods.

His fingers drift farther up, tentatively, to find Geralt still slick with oil. He sighs as if he’s being punched in the chest, all air pushed from his lungs.

“Tell me you’re awake,” he whispers, a tone of awe in his voice.

“Mhhh,” Geralt croaks.

“Tell me I’m awake and not dreaming,” Jaskier says and he sounds wrecked already, breathless and hoarse. “You know what, forget it. I don’t care. It’s not the first time I had this dream after all.” His fingers glide towards Geralt’s entrance and find it still slick, still loose enough to slip one digit right in. Jaskier moans obscenely, as if he’s never felt anything better before in his life, and Geralt has to smile around his own harsh inhale.

Jaskier doesn’t waste time. He pushes further in, twisting, until Geralt gasps. He could swear he could feel Jaskier’s proud grin behind his back. “You feel so good,” Jaskier mumbles, “I really did dream about this, you know, wanted this for so long.”

One finger becomes two and Geralt pushes back against the pressure, wantonly, which makes Jaskier’s babbling even more incoherent. Jaskier’s cock is gliding wet against his back, marking him with precome, and even though Geralt isn’t quite sure it will fit, he doesn’t want to wait a minute longer.

Blushing furiously, still unused to how he can now just ask for something he wants, he whispers, “I want you, Jaskier,” just loud enough to hear over the thick beating of his heart and their harsh breathing. Jaskier moans as if he’s hurt.

“Just a little… ugh.. a little longer,” he murmurs, driving his fingers deep inside Geralt and screwing them in and out.

“Now,” Geralt croaks, with every intention to make it sound like an order but only managing a pityful plea. Jaskier’s fingers slip free, leaving Geralt feeling open and empty, while he hears Jaskier rummaging on the side table.

Geralt waits for him to propose a change of position, but Jaskier knows him well, too well maybe. Geralt’s afraid he’ll loose his nerve if he has to get up on all fours or roll over and spread his legs for Jaskier, the way they prefer it when’s it’s the other way around. He still has so much to learn, all the things Jaskier can teach him and everything they might find out together.

So Jaskier, perceptive as always, settles back behind him, sighing when he coats his cock with oil. His hand is back on Geralt’s hip, steadying him. His other hand slicks Geralt up again, dipping inside his hole almost playful once again. Geralt realizes he’s holding his breath and lets it out slowly. Jaskier fucks him lazily with his fingers until he relaxes again and his breathing comes more evenly.

And then there’s heat. And pressure. And the excruciating feeling of his rim stretching, wider and wider, around the head of Jaskier’s cock.

Jaskier’s panting like a race horse against his back, his fingers digging into his hip almost painful.

This is taking too long.

Geralt shoves his body back, impales himself on Jaskier’s cock, and they both cry out a the feeling of his head slipping past the tightness and inside.

They don’t move for a long moment, breathing through the feeling of being joined like this for the first time. Geralt feels so full. His body stretched around the girth of Jaskier’s cock, and his heart filled to bursting with emotion. The desire and the need and the closeness and the intimacy blur into each other, shifting something profound inside him. It’s almost unbearable.

Jaskier seems to gather his wits, because he draws back slowly and pushes forward again, as if he’s trying to gauge Geralt’s reaction. When he’s only greeted with a low moan, he gets bolder. Soon enough, they’re moving against each other in an uncoordinated carnal motion, Jaskier fucking Geralt with long, deep thrusts, Geralt taking it, meeting Jaskier in the middle. He grabs Jaskier’s hand, intertwines their fingers to ground himself.

Jaskier squezes back, then pulls on their combined hands.

“I want you to touch yourself,” he gasps between languid thrusts that hit that perfect spot that makes dark lights flicker in the corner of Geralt’s vision.

Jaskier pushes Geralt’s own hand towards his groin and Geralt obediently curls his palm around his cock. It’s already dripping with a steady trickle of precome and jerks in his hold at the first touch. Jaskier doesn’t take back his hand though, instead covers Geralt’s own and sets a rhythm for him.

Geralt has never given up control like this. He feels cared for and desired in a way he didn’t think was possible. The pleasure is surging almost violently him, shaking him to his very core. He rocks his hips back against Jaskier to take him deeper, and forward into his own tight fist, seeking both kinds of stimulation, combining them into one blinding, earth-shattering sensation.

Jaskier is everywhere, inside him, around him, whispering praise and filthy comments in his ear, licking drops of sweat from his skin, tightening his own fist around his cock. Geralt can no longer tell where his body ends and Jaskier’s begins, but at the same time, for the first time in his life, he feels whole and fully himself. His eyes burn with the intensity of it and he’s glad that Jaskier can’t see him, because along with the droplets of sweat running down his cheeks, there might be a tear or two.

Jaskier’s hips slap against his ass faster now, quick and shallow thrusts that tell Geralt he’s as close as he is. He twists his upper body, fishes blindly for Jaskier’s head with his free hand and smashes their mouths together in a desperate kiss. It’s messy and uncoordinated, but Jaskier seems to have waited for the contact, because he’s pounding into Geralt hard, once, twice, his hand urging Geralt into a faster rhythm, until Geralt seizes up and comes all over their hands with a grunt, and Jaskier lets go, too, spilling deep inside Geralt with a soft cry.

Jaskier holds him through the aftershocks, milks every last ounce of pleasure from him with careful hands and slow thrusts. When he’s too sensitive for anything more and growing limp, Geralt lets Jaskier’s spent cock slip free and turns in his arms, head cushioned on his chest.

They come down slowly.

Jaskier’s fingers tangle in his hair, playing with it like he always does when they lie together. It makes Geralt drowsy just like it always does. He realizes with a start that he could never say that before: _always_. 

His eyes fall closed, his body exhausted and his mind soothed by the steady beat of Jaskier’s heart.

It will stop one day, and Geralt will have to go on without him. The thought makes panic rise inside him, clawing against his insides like a scared animal. But he made his choice, and it’s too late now to change it. He will let himself have this, for however long fate will allow it. After a long while, his heartbeat slows down. He fought unwinnable battles before. The trick is to ignore your fear. Never accept a defeat before it’s truly over.

“I love you,” he murmurs, and Jaskier’s hand stills for a moment. His chest heaves under Geralt’s cheek.

Gentle lips press a tender kiss against his forehead.

At least he won’’t fight this war alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked this, maybe have a look at my Geralt/Yen/Jaskier fic [one silver night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22072546), too?
> 
> If you wanna share this story, here's the  rebloggable tumblr post!
> 
> I'm [procasdeanating](https://procasdeanting.tumblr.com) on tumblr. Come say hi!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [procasdeanating](https://procasdeanating.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. Come say hi!


End file.
